


Uninvited

by Sinsrose



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, HYDRA Trash Party, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, LITERALLY, M/M, Misgendering, Past Sexual Abuse, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Abuse, bucky doesnt want to talk about it, he just doesnt, this fic has no fucking real happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 14:37:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15665199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinsrose/pseuds/Sinsrose
Summary: Not all wounds heal, and some never really do.





	Uninvited

**Author's Note:**

> This is unbeted, and was handwritten in a journal of mine after my own recovery, any mistakes are my own. This might be triggering to some.

Not all wounds are visible, not everything that is on a body is just flesh and bones. There’s an etching, an imprint that leaves wounds well past when they were made. It leaves limbs shaking, leaves them trembling clutching at the old scars like it’s a souvenir when it’s not. It’s nothing but a curse, nothing but an echo that touches the back of his mouth and coats it in a sticky bile. That hangs on the edges of his tongue and leaves him feeling sick for most of the night.  
  
  The way that he’s curled into his mattress on the floor in the small apartment that he’s got in Romania. Hair keeping his face hidden as he’s curled against the old mattress, his breathing less than steady. Not with how the scars have affected him so vastly. He can _remember_. He remembers them. He remembers the way they smelt, what they touched, how they nudged his legs apart: _how he wanted them to stop but his voice was never there_.  
  
  He’s tired. He’s always tired, and something always lingers at the edges of his bones. He mostly just breathes out, watches the way the shadows flicker from the windows, counts then, a silent plea almost for it not to be anything or anyone. He shifts his head on the mattress, blue eyes looking upwards towards the celling, a blank expression etched into them. He’s too tired, he’s always been tired, but something right now is just cracked open in his bones. Something is etched raw, and it makes him hold what little is uncomposed together. His fingers catching the small fabric of a woven blanket that has seen better days but is a better comfort than the shadows creeping into his mind.  
  
   
       I. Legs slick with blood: _look at that fellas, he’s like a bitch spreading his legs for us--_  
  
Eyes flutter closed, fingers dig into the mattress. His flesh hand curls the blanket around him tighter, lets it cling close. Let’s him be comforted by the soft heat, the softness that wasn’t the same as their touch. This was feather light, this was good, this wasn’t blood. These weren’t hands covered in blood touching him in places that shouldn’t have been touched. He breathes, catches a breath, tries not to count the shadows as much. Tries to still his breathing, he’s shaking he can feel it. He can feel the way he falls apart.  
  
   The apartment feels so much smaller in the dark. So much smaller and he hates it. Can taste it all over again at the back of his tongue. The steady reminder that his bones are tainted, that the color of his blood, the color of his flesh, they’re all tainted. He squeezes his eyes shut again, tries not to tremble tries not to cry out. But he can’t stop the way that he trembles that he falls apart.  
  
 II. _Just take a look at that cunt fellas--_  
  
A choked sob escapes him. He’s alone in the apartment breaking: he’s alone and falling apart and no a soul can hear him but himself. It’s better this way, much better this way because some part of him knows it’s his fault. That he caused it. Oh you sweet boy, you never caused this. They were monsters, they tainted you into believing everything was because you made it to be that way. He chokes on this cry, one that echoes to the bottom of his chest.  
  
 He can still feel their fingers etched into his flesh. Feel the way bruises had lingered and lingered in his skin. The cries that escape him are heartwreching, a type of sob that no one should ever hear. No one needs to hear, not from anyone they love. He’s crying: and it’s a curved edge of a knife in his veins. Fingers dig into the mattress, and he’s outright fallen apart crying: the sobs are vast, not a gentle cry. This is a man that has been broken open in the worst way.  
  
III. You’re a slut, tell me you’re _my slut_ \--  
  
There’s a gentle foreground of movement. No fainter than a feather on limbs that are shaking with the fact he’s been crying. There’s a movement that is so soft, and so bittersweet because the pain lingering in blue eyes when he outright reaches out to the man tangled and curled into the mattress. The soft sounds escaping him, the soft ‘Shhh, it’s okay. Buck Buck, I’ve got you.’ The gentle press and pull of soft movements, careful to be so tender, to be so soft as to not upset him further. Bucky chokes on a soft cry, something that sounds gut wrenching from how the sob sounds in his throat.  
  
  
   The way that his fingers curl into his frame. The way that he’s almost smashing his fingers against his chest. He- _he didn’t want him to see him like this_. He didn’t want him to ever see him on the edge like this to see him fall apart. To see him break open like this. Bucky lets out this sound that sounds so pained: that sounds so broken, and he breathes outwards. He breathes. Counts and tries to not choke on his own lungs. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry---”  
  
IV. What have you to be sorry for? You stupid _whore_.

 

  He’s still crying. It doesn’t stop no matter how hard he tries. He can feel their fingers under his skin, feel the way they pressed into it. Feel the way he hates how dirty his body is. It clings under the flesh, rips at the soul, leaves markings that he never wanted to have. That he shouldn’t have. He breathes outwards, lets his lungs sink with two shaken breathes, and breathes out. It hangs in his body, his fists pound at Steve’s chest and for awhile everything goes still right that, and he’s shaken up.

  
    IIV. You don’t tell him about what happened. Not the blood, not the bruises, not the imprints that he can’t see.

  
   Bucky never answers the questions to why he cried that day. He never answers them, not even when he starts to break at the gentle touches. He can’t explain, he can’t tell him. He closes his eyes, trembles and lets out a soft sound. And for while nothing is ever really said. Nothing is ever really revealed because Bucky won’t talk about it, it’s just a chapter of his history not meant to be seen.  
  
 And sometimes, some wounds are so deep you just can’t talk about them, and you can’t let anyone else slip inside out of fear. You can recover but the fear remains there, it always remains there of what if it happens again. And for him, it never really goes away, and that’s the reason he cries at night.  
  
  
  Because recovery is hard than you realize on your own, no matter how much you want to do it. Sometimes you just can’t, because admitting you were raped isn’t something you ever wanted to do and it still haunts your dreams.  
  
  you just want to let go, but your crying is anything but that.


End file.
